


un café noisette, s’il vous plaît

by harlequin87



Category: Formula E RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:54:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28882761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: Jev's perfectly happy working at Susie's - he is, really - but it can be boring sometimes. That is, until a handsome photographer walks into the shop one morning.Or: a tale of coffee, cameras, and complimentary muffins.
Relationships: André Lotterer/Jean-Eric Vergne
Comments: 6
Kudos: 11
Collections: Formula E Winter Exchange





	un café noisette, s’il vous plaît

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CustardCreamies](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CustardCreamies/gifts).



> Dear CustardCreamies: thank you for the prompt! I really enjoyed writing it, and I hope this fulfils the request for coffee shops & cafés AU fluff (and Cheetah!).

Jev likes working at Susie’s. Sure, a little hipster café on the trendy side of town hadn’t seemed like a great deal when he’d been transferred from Toto’s, over in the financial district, but he’s making the best of it. Most of his colleagues had been moved from the bigger, more established franchise too, so there’s a collective chip on their shoulders which makes working together all the more bearable.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Take over on the till for me,” Sam murmurs, tapping him on the shoulder. “I need to piss.”

Without giving him a chance to respond, he ducks out the back, and Jev’s left to face the hordes himself. Not that there’s much of a horde, to be fair – with ten minutes left of his shift, the commuter rush has subsided, and it’s still too early for the students to drag themselves in. He’s busying himself with wiping down the counter in preparation for the shift change, when the door opens, a customer’s presence announced by a chill blast of winter air.

Jev looks up instinctively, ready to anticipate the customer’s order, and his gaze – it sticks to the man, like his eyes are warm and the man’s body is ice. He’s _hot_ , despite the redness of his nose and the steaming breaths he leaves behind him.

He’s wearing a light grey coat, probably wool and absolutely unsuitable for the weather, but it matches the greying edges of his hair, so Jev will allow it. A bag swings over his shoulder, jostled from side to side as the man blows warm air into his hands.

Jev shoves the cloth under the counter and straightens, customer service mask firmly in place. He’s a professional, no matter how attractive the latest patron may be.

“Bonjour,” the hot guy says.

He’s so distracted by the smiling creases around his eyes that he doesn’t think before stuttering out a replying, “Bonjour.”

“Je voudrais un café noisette, s’il vous plaît,” the man continues, like French is the normal language for ordering coffee round here.

Jev can hear Sam fiddling with the machine behind him, so he kicks backwards to catch his attention. “Sam, un café noisette.”

“You what, mate?” Sam retorts, coming to stand next to him. The guy’s eyes flick to Sam, his indignant Englishness so out of place in their conversation, and his eyes crinkle impossibly more.

“Un café noisette,” Jev repeats. “It’s, ah – macchiato.”

Sam snorts. “Yeah, right. You do that, I’ll deal with the customer. Would you like any pastries with that?”

He turns to the coffee machine, selecting the right size of cup and wiping around the rim a few times. This is his comfort zone, his safety blanket – not unfairly attractive men interrupting the last few minutes of his shift by speaking French to him, of all things. He makes the macchiato on autopilot, listening to Sam talking through the baked goods.

“Well, there’s your standard muffins, and croissants and pains au chocolat, and those things on the end are haggle-slags – don’t ask, I think my co-worker made up the name.”

“ _Hagelslag_ ,” the guy says softly, and Jev smiles at Sam’s huff.

“Yes, those, and then chocolate cake, carrot cake, and Victoria sponge. Any of those take your fancy?”

“I’ll take a croissant,” the guy says after a moment. Sam’s clattering around with the back of the display case – he’s worked here almost longer than everyone else; it’s a mystery how he doesn’t know where the lock is – so Jev takes the opportunity to put the drink on the tray undisturbed.

“Merci,” the guy says, eyeing the coffee appreciatively.

“De rien,” Jev answers reflexively. It’s one thing Sam not knowing how to get the cakes out of the cabinet, and entirely another this man knowing he speaks French five seconds after first seeing him. He’s been told he has a French vibe (by Sam, of course), but he hadn’t thought it was that obvious. “How – how did you know?”

“Your name badge says Jean-Eric,” the guy says, smile fading. “I thought it was a reasonable guess.”

“No, you’re right,” Jev rushes to say. The customer is always right, but he also wants to see that smile again. “Most people call me Jev, though.”

“Jeff?” The smile’s back, if more confused than before.

(And that’s saying something, with Sam _still_ wrestling with the cabinet door.)

“Jev,” he corrects. “Jean-Eric Vergne – it’s my initials.”

“Ah, well, if we’re exchanging names,” the guy says. Jev can’t help but match his grin. “I’m André Lotterer.”

“But you’re not French?” He’d seemed fluent, but the accent wasn’t quite there – the same as both their English.

“German,” André smiles. It must be his default state.

Jev’s about to say something stupid when Sam pops up in the middle of them, brandishing a croissant triumphantly. “There you go,” he says, depositing it on a plate next to the macchiato. “Have a nice day.”

“Thanks,” André says, sliding the tray off the counter and backing away. He locks eyes with Jev. “À la prochaine.”

“Au revoir,” he murmurs.

It could just be a mistranslation, but he really hopes André will come back to the café again. He doesn’t think he could last a week without seeing those laughing eyes and that careful smile again, only minutes after the first encounter.

 _À la prochaine_ , though – it sounds like a promise.

*

André doesn’t come back the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Jev endures of cappuccinos and espressos and mochas, but he waits for _un café noisette_ in vain. Not even Sam’s incessant babbling can cheer him up.

“And then Robin told me that António ignored his call! Like, deliberately – can you _imagine_?”

Jev shrugs, eyes fixed on the door. He’s never met Robin, his early shifts never matching up with Robin’s later ones, but he’s heard more about his love life than those of most of his own friends.

“Anyway, I told him not to worry, and to text him to see what was going on. He hasn’t replied to me yet – probably sleeping, the lazybones – but I’ll let you know what happened when I find out.”

He grunts. He’s lucky, able to play it off as a Gallicism when anyone else would just seem rude. He has more important things on his mind, though: if André doesn’t come in today, he won’t see him until after the weekend.

On the other hand – André hadn’t turned up until almost the end of his shift the last time, so maybe he’s keeping to the same schedule. Trying to keep the nervous anticipation in his stomach at bay, he kills two minutes wiping down all the tables, but still nothing.

He’s down to his very last crumb of hope, less than all the dirt he’d just cleared off the tables, when-

“Bonjour,” that same husky voice says.

Jev spins round, so fast the cloth tucked into his apron smacks him on the leg. “Bonjour.”

_Play it cool, Vergne. Act like you haven’t been thinking about this for days._

“Un café noisette?” he asks, going behind the counter to enter André’s order.

“Oui, s’il vous plaît,” André smiles. It’s a good look on him, and he must do it a lot; he’s got deeper laugh lines than anyone Jev’s seen, bar maybe Ricciardo over at Toto’s.

(But he’s not thinking about that. Not now, when things are going well – getting better, even.)

“Doing anything fun today?” he asks as he prods the machine into the right configuration to produce a macchiato.

André rests his folded arms on the counter, leans forward. “Nothing too exciting. In fact, I’d say this might be the highlight.”

“It’s not even nine yet,” Jev protests weakly. Some milk spills onto the floor where his hands are shaking. It’s fine – Sam can mop it up later.

It might be a trick of the light, but André might just wink at him. “You can tell I’ve been looking forward to this, then.”

He finishes off the drink with no more issues and exchanges it for payment with a stupid sense of loss. He’s spoken to the guy twice, and now he’s annoyed that his professionalism dispensed of him too quickly.

Besides, it’s not the morning rush anymore; he could have taken his time and dragged it out a bit. He’s casting around for something to say, André hovering with his ever-present smile, when Sam appears.

“Bonjour, monsieur!” he says brightly. Jev winces at the accent. “Ça va?”

“Bien, merci. Jev est très intéressant,” André answers gamely, though Jev almost wishes he hadn’t.

 _Interesting?_ What’s that supposed to mean? Does he like him, or does he think Jev’s a curiosity to laugh at – not the only French barista in town, but surely the only one who’ll talk French to a customer and mess up his job while he’s at it?

“Genial,” Sam continues, slapping Jev on the back.

He raises his eyebrows at André, a silent _help me!_ He’s also the only barista around who’d willingly ditch his co-worker to make small talk with a guy he’s met twice.

“Pouvez-vous parler?” André tilts his head towards the row of empty tables by the window, and Jev takes the out gratefully.

“Oui, oui – merci _beaucoup_.”

Sam lets go of his arm after Jev kicks his knee – he’d been going for the shin, but Sam’s just that short – and he scurries after André. If this is his chance, he can’t mess it up.

André’s picked the table furthest from the counter, two high-backed armchairs giving the illusion of privacy despite the huge window next to them. Jev sits in the one facing the door, trying to ignore Sam’s wide eyes from the other side of the café.

He shouldn’t technically be doing this during his shift, but Sam’s the one in charge. Whatever he says goes, and he hasn’t said anything. It’s probably fine; they don’t have any other customers in at the moment anyway.

“This is so good,” André says with a sigh, and Jev blinks back into focus. “The coffee, I mean.”

“I’m happy you like it,” he says politely. It’s awkward enough to remind him that, however much he’s thought about this in the comfort of his own head, they’ve never really spoken aside from a few phrases in French.

“So you work here?” André says, then rolls his eyes. “Sorry, stupid question.”

Jev shrugs, smiles. Maybe he’s not the only one nervous about this. “Yeah, for the last few years. Transferred from Toto’s – it’s in the financial district, do you know it?”

“Not really my scene.” André points to his bag, the same one as before; he hadn’t noticed it today, too focused on his smile and his face and his everything. “I do photography.”

“You’re a photographer? Any good?” Jev shoves his hands under his legs to stop himself punching himself in the face.

André chuckles. “People pay me for it, so they must think so. But no, seriously, it’s a great job. Flexible hours, too.”

“Can I see your camera?” Jev asks, before he can catch himself.

“Sure.” André hands the bag over. “Be careful, though – do you know what you’re doing?”

Jev takes the camera out, smiling in recognition. “Same as mine, don’t worry.”

André sits forward, macchiato abandoned. “Yeah?”

“Yeah – I used to do some social media stuff, back at Toto’s, so I got used to using the camera for the pretty photos. I bought one of my own after – after I was reassigned.” He hasn’t had a chance to take photos in a while; maybe this is a sign. “Mind if I look at your stuff?”

“Sure,” André says. “None of it’s edited – well, obviously, but you’d know that already.”

Jev clicks through the camera roll. It’s all artsy shots of cars and brick walls and flowers growing in cracks in the pavement, and it captures the vibe of the neighbourhood around the café perfectly. “You’re good,” he decides, handing the camera back.

Their fingers brush for a fraction of a second before Jev yanks his hand back, like he’s been scalded.

The corners of André’s mouth quirk up. “Thanks. Hey – maybe we could find a time to go and take some photos together, if you want?”

Jev smiles back instinctively, brain spinning into overdrive. Is this – does he mean like a date? He’d be fine with something platonic, of course; he’d be stupid to turn down the chance to spend more time with the hot guy who comes into the coffee shop occasionally and talks to him in French and does _really, really good_ photography.

He does want it to be a date, but he’s too awkward and unsure of himself to check, and-

“It’s fine if you don’t want to,” André says, face smoothing out into a blanker expression. “Just a suggestion, that’s all.”

He bites his lip. “No, no – I’d like to. I’m just really busy for the next few weeks, so I don’t think I’d have time for much.”

“Well, have athink and let me know when I’m next in, okay?” André says. He drains the last of the coffee from his cup, loops his scarf around his neck, and stands up, camera safely stowed in its bag. “See you soon, Jev.”

“Bye,” he says faintly as André walks out the door, collar turned up against the cold.

He’s really blown it now.

*

André doesn’t come back to the café for another week, and Jev’s sure it’s all his fault. Not only has he messed up this _thing_ , whatever it might be, that had been building between them, but he’s lost the café a customer.

When he finally reappears, one sunny, almost warm Tuesday morning, Jev’s clearing up the remains of a broken plate at the back of the shop. Someone had dropped it, reported it, and ran, so he’s on his hands and knees under a table, picking up the shards of ceramic and wiping the floor to make sure nothing’s left behind.

He’s murmuring along to the radio, double-checking the area, when he hears him. Even without the visual, he recognises André’s voice in an instant. That warm tone, slightly rough around the edges? It couldn’t be anybody else.

“A macchiato, please. No, that’s fine, thanks. Um – takeaway. Thanks.”

Jev peers around the chair that’s blocking his view. André’s loitering by the counter, fiddling with the strap of his camera bag. He’s not leaning over the counter and speaking French to Simona, but then he’s not asking after Jev either.

He quickly finishes putting all the pieces of broken plate in the plastic bag, about to stand up, when the door opens and closes, accompanied by a gust of cool air. He sticks his head up over the table – André’s gone. _Damn._

It might be a good thing, he rationalises miserably. Popping up behind a customer and startling them can’t be on the employee conduct code.

“Is that your guy?” Simona asks, raising her eyebrows as Jev approaches with his bag of broken plate.

“Who?” If he pretends not to know, he won’t have to answer.

“André. Sam told me you two have a thing.”

Of course it was Sam who’d spread the rumours. Since Robin and António had apparently got their act – and themselves – together, he needs a new focus for his matchmaking skills.

“What did he say?”

Simona crosses her arms over her chest, smirking. “That you’re both terrible, but you’re worse, and we’re all going to have to watch you pining for the next ten years.”

“I’m not pining,” Jev mutters, throwing the bag into the bin. It makes a satisfying crashing sound, if nothing else.

“Keep believing that,” she laughs, and goes to hang up her apron. Jev can’t remember who’s on the next shift with him, but if it’s Sam – God help him, he’s going to throttle the man.

It’s not Sam, luckily for both of them, but he keeps a little flame of annoyance burning in his heart ready for the next time they’re at Susie’s together. Pascal and Mitch are covering the early morning shift for the next few days, and Jev’s convinced he hears André’s voice floating through from the café as he’s packing up to leave.

Either it’s hideously bad timing, or André’s avoiding him.

Besides, he tells himself, walking home after his latest close call with André, he must have noticed Pascal and Mitch. He must have gone straight for them with his hot German accent and his sexy knowledge of languages and his lovely laugh-lined eyes. He’d only been interested in Jev because he was the better option out of him and Sam, and that’s not a difficult choice to make.

Deciding between him, Pascal, and Mitch, though – that’s more complicated, if only deciding which of his two co-workers is hotter. He unlocks the door to his apartment and tosses his bag to the floor with a huff.

It’s fine. He hasn’t been thinking about André and his photography and the way his hands looked holding the camera, for hours on end. He hasn’t been going through his camera roll to make sure only the very best photos are available for André, the professional photographer, to see. He hasn’t been doing any of that. He’s fine.

Happily enough for him but unfortunately for Sam, they’re both on the rota for the next morning. Sam’s already at the café, bustling around and whistling to himself, when Jev drags himself through the door.

“Morning, sunshine!” Sam chirps.

Jev grunts. “Whatever.”

“Cheer up,” Sam says, trailing after him into the back room. “Today might be the day you see lover boy again!”

He elbows Sam in the ribs. “It’s not like that. He prefers Pascal and Mitch.”

“And how do you know that?” Sam says, fixing him with a stern glare. “Does he hang around with either of those two and show them his camera and invite them on it’s-not-a-date-but-it-very-much-is photography trips?

Jev shrugs. He hasn’t really been paying attention, too busy moping over his missed chance, but it could well have happened.

Sam’s frown softens, and he pushes Jev on the shoulder. “Come on, mate. You know he doesn’t. He’s been hanging around like a lost puppy waiting for you. Simona told me, and Pascal and Mitch.”

He screws his eyes shut. He doesn’t want to hear about how they’re all apparently in on his terrible excuse of a love life, even the two most attractive guys in the company.

(He’s not being self-deprecating, really. He has eyes.)

“Hey, Jev, cheer up. I know what your head gets like-” Sam’s not lying; he’s seen what Jev had been like after being involuntarily reassigned from Toto’s, burned out and anxious- “and I promise I’m telling you the truth. André really likes you, so you should give it a shot.”

“Really?” he asks, hating how quiet his voice is, and Sam grins.

“Of course, mate. I wouldn’t bullshit you, not about this.”

*

It’s typical, really, that he catches a cold over the weekend. The weather’s just tipping over into spring, and yet he’d still managed to pick up the tail end of the winter virus. Susie had heard him limp through half his explanation for why he’s going to be late for his shift, and told him to stay in bed. She’d said firmly that she wasn’t going to have him coughing and sneezing all over her customers, and that was that.

He texts Sam a miserable _won’t be in today or tomorrow, got a cold_ and turns his phone off. Going back to sleep for a while seems like a good idea, and he’s already warm and comfortable in bed.

Three hours later, he wakes up to a phone full of messages from Sam. Blearily, he switches on the bedside light and sits up to read them.

_André’s here_

_Looking around like someone’s nicked his favourite teddy bear_

_Coming over (not smiling)_

_Had a macchiato to take out, no French for me :(_

_Asked where you were, told me to tell you that he’s sorry you’re ill and he hopes you’ll get better soon_

_Then he took his coffee and left all droopy and sad_

_I think you’re giving him more grey hairs by not being here haha_

Jev smiles weakly, not capable of anything more.

_Thanks for the update – if he comes in again, tell him thanks for asking_

Sam pings back a response in seconds; it’s a good thing he’s his own supervisor, instead of having Jérôme or even Susie herself hanging around.

_Will do! And I’ll let you know how much happier he’s going to look_

_You don’t know that :(_

_Yes I do :)_

_Sweet dreams anyway, recover fast so I don’t have to deal with lover boy’s moping by myself_

_Thanks…_

Sam keeps him updated for the three shifts he misses, even managing a sneaky photo of André as he walks towards the counter, camera bag over his shoulder. He’s wearing a different coat, lighter to suit the warmer weather, but no less stylish.

The first day, apparently André had pouted when he saw Sam. In Jev’s opinion, that’s more the effect Sam tends to have on people than his own absence.

The second day, he’d lingered by the counter for a good few minutes, staring into the back room like Jev might have emerged at any moment.

He’d brought a reusable coffee cup with him, which Jev only knows because Sam had decided he was going to write Jev’s number on André’s takeaway cup. But André had chosen that day to be environmentally responsible, and Jev’s wildly grateful.

The third day, André had actually asked about him – “And he wanted to be sure you’re okay and eating enough!” Sam tells him gleefully, once he makes it back to work on the fourth day. “I told him it was all taken care of, but he didn’t seem convinced. Shame you’re back, really – I could have worked him round to visiting you in your sickbed if you’d waited another few days.”

“Nice to see you too,” Jev murmurs. Sam’s a good mate, but he’d much rather see André, if he has the choice.

*

He doesn’t have to wait long before the man in question appears. It’s strange, how their relationship has progressed in his absence, yet they still look just the same. André might be sporting a little more stubble and his own nose is a bit better from sneezing near-constantly, but that’s all.

“Jev!” André says, as soon as he walks in the door. Jev can’t stop a smile in response to the grin spreading over the other man’s face. “You’re back.”

“Yes,” he says, sidling up to the counter and shoving Sam out of the way with his hip. “Feeling much better now – thanks for checking up on me.”

André smiles, settles his arms on the counter. “No problem. Don’t tell anyone, but Sam’s cafés noisettes are awful compared to yours.”

Jev glows. “Merci.”

“De rien,” André says, flicking his eyes up and down Jev’s body in a move too studied to be natural. He looks around the shop – empty save for an elderly woman and her newspaper. “Got a minute to talk?”

Jev smiles. “Let me get the coffee, and I’ll be right there.”

The conversation flows easily; more easily than it should, after twenty-three minutes of actually talking before (and yes, Jev’s counted). They talk about their jobs, their hobbies, and André manages to wangle a promise out of Jev that he’ll bring his camera to work the next day so he can look at his photos.

(He’s so glad he already took the time to go through his camera roll).

It’s nice, despite the stress of chatting during his work shift and being on red alert in case Susie just happens to walk through the door and catch him letting Sam do all the work for him. Sam doesn’t mind – he’s checked, and apparently his colleague would prefer to watch them making progress with their relationship than do half the amount of work – so it’s only a little bit of guilt that makes itself known in the pit of his stomach.

Still, it’s not enough to stop him bringing his camera, as requested, and letting André pore over his photos for twenty minutes. He’s full of admiration which Jev thinks is mostly genuine, and his eyes almost disappear when he sees the first photo of Cheetah, he’s smiling so much.

“This is your cat?” he asks, turning the camera so Jev can see.

“Yes – Cheetah,” he says. “She’s very… photogenic, I think is the word.”

“But your skill helps,” André says, looking back to the camera. “She’s beautiful.”

Jev preens. He might be awkward about accepting praise for his photography when it’s just a hobby, but he’s always happy to listen to people talking about his cat.

“You should come and photograph her one day,” he says, before his brain has time to consider the implications of the statement.

“Yeah?” André sits back in the chair, legs spread wide around the small table between them.

“I mean, if you’re not busy. And, um, it’s your job so I understand if you don’t want to do that in your free time…”

André chuckles. “Jev, it’s fine. I would love to.”

He sighs, relieved. “Okay. Okay, good. We should sort out a time.”

“I don’t have my schedule on me right now,” André says, “but you should give me your number so we can coordinate.”

“Yes,” Jev says. He takes André’s phone, types in his number and sends a text to make sure it’s right. “That would be good.”

André smiles. If he were more confident in himself, Jev would think he’d brought their fingers together on purpose. “I should go now, but I’ll text you.”

Jev nods, something strange fizzing in his stomach. “I look forward to it.”

And then André’s gone, door swinging closed behind him. Jev barely has time to clear their cups and plates onto a tray before Sam’s jumping on him from behind, whispering fiercely in his ear, “Did I hear that right? You two are making it official?”

“No, nothing like that.” Jev shakes him off his shoulders. “He wants to come and take photos of Cheetah.”

Sam squawks. “He wants to take photos of your cat in _your apartment?_ Nice one, mate.”

Jev huffs, carrying the tray to the counter. Sam’s so dramatic. Maybe he should reconsider his previous positive feelings towards the man.

“But at least you’ll see each other outside the café,” Sam continues, not getting the hint. “That’s a big step!”

Jev grunts. “To see my cat, Sam. It’s not that exciting.”

Sam hums. “From your perspective, maybe. Make sure you tell me everything about it!”

*

The modelling session with Cheetah goes perfectly, from Jev’s point of view. Sam probably would have preferred to hear that they’d lasted two minutes before ripping each other’s clothes off and getting down to it, but that would be a lie.

Instead, he has a lot of professional photos of his cat and the satisfaction of knowing that he and André’s hands had touched again – once, by accident – and neither of them had said anything about it. That has to be a good sign, right?

André comes to the café every day now (or every day Jev is working, at least; he sent his schedule to André a few weeks ago and he hasn’t missed a shift since). He always slides in the door about five minutes before his shift ends, orders a coffee, entertains Sam for a few minutes, and then sits down with Jev in their usual seats by the window to talk.

It’s more than he could ever have hoped to have, and that’s fine by him.

However – as he should have guessed – it’s not enough for Sam. With Robin all loved up with António, Sam has barely anyone else to talk about apart from André. Jev might be jealous, if Sam’s second favourite topic wasn’t his lovely girlfriend and their lovely dog.

But it means Sam is scheming again, plotting an irritating plan to force him and André into some uncomfortable situation. He’s not exactly looking forward to this inevitable event, but – if it gets him and André out of this awkward middle ground they’ve found themselves in, he’s not going to complain.

(Not too loudly, anyway – he doesn’t want Sam getting a big head.)

So it shouldn’t be a surprise, really, when André walks into the coffee shop the next week. Jev’s ready and waiting to take his order (in French, of course), as usual, when Sam appears, grinning evilly. Something’s up.

Keeping a distracted smile on his face so André knows he’s happy to see him, Jev glances around the café in a panic. Nothing looks different, as such, but that doesn’t mean a lot when a certain tiny Englishman is concerned.

“Good morning,” André says, pulling Jev’s attention back to the job in hand.

“Morning,” he answers, but that’s all he gets out before Sam bodily grabs him and shoves him round the front of the counter. “Sam, what the hell?”

Sam smiles brightly, bouncing on the balls of his feet like that’s going to make him any taller. “A macchiato for you, sir?”

Jev growls. “What are you doing?”

André smiles at him, clearly happy to indulge Sam’s nonsense. “Yes, please.”

Jev stands and watches, fuming, as Sam potters around making the coffee. He must be doing this on purpose – he might not know where the lock for the cake cabinet is, but he knows how to make a macchiato like the back of his hand. Is he trying to frustrate them into kissing, or something equally ludicrous?

“There you go,” Sam simpers, pushing the takeaway cup into Jev’s hand. He’s barely opened his mouth to protest when Sam’s ducked under the counter and pushed him towards the door. “Come on, Vergne,” he mutters, low enough that André won’t be able to hear from a few metres back, “this is for your own good.”

“What do you mean?” he hisses back.

“Remember the code of conduct!” Sam trills, opening the door with one hand and shoving Jev through it with the other. “And you’ll thank me later!”

Jev glares through the window at Sam, who’s grinning to himself behind the counter. Just what he thinks he’s doing – and then it hits him.

“What did he mean about the code of conduct?” André asks, awkwardly taking the cup Jev passes to him. “Why are we outside?”

“It’s…” Jev sighs. It’s such a Sam thing to do, he doesn’t know why he hadn’t anticipated it before. “We have to be professional in the workplace.”

“Oh,” André says. He’s smirking now, the light of realisation dancing in his eyes. “Do you – would you be interested in being unprofessional, now we’re out here?”

Jev looks back at Sam, who’s staring blatantly at them from inside. He rests a hand on André’s shoulder, pivots them so his back’s to Sam and all the unprofessional behaviour will be out of sight. “Yes, I would.”

They lean closer together, the coffee cup pressed between their chests, and André pulls back for a fraction of second. “Don’t you mean, _oui, oui, monsieur_?”

Jev can’t stop a laugh slipping out, and then they’re kissing. It might count as unprofessional inside the café, but it’s not exactly scandalous outside it. It’s a chaste kiss, a few seconds at most, though Jev still takes the opportunity to touch André’s hair like he’s wanted to for months.

André takes a step back. “Not that I want to stop, but it’s cold. Do you think Sam will let us back in now?”

Jev grins at him, flushed with the kiss and the wind. “He should do.”

He pushes at the door, relieved when it opens. (Sam’s tried locking him out before, although Susie noticed within about a minute of him hammering on the door.)

Sam’s perched on the counter, not a customer in sight, when the two of them come back in. “That was cute,” he says, swinging his legs. “In fact, I was so impressed that you finally made a move than I’ve decided to give you a complimentary muffin.”

He produces a chocolate muffin on a plate from behind him and hands it to a laughing André.

“What about me?” Jev asks, fondly indignant.

“Oh, I thought you could share it,” Sam shrugs. “That’s what couples do, isn’t it?”

André chokes on his bite of muffin, and Jev splutters. “Who said anything about – _couples_?”

“Me,” Sam says happily. “Trust me, I’m always right.”

And, for once, Jev wouldn’t mind it if his small, smug co-worker was right. He just won’t tell him straight away, that’s all.


End file.
